The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston

I dreamed I sat one evening all alone,
In chambers haunted by old memories, —
No hope of star, or prophecy of sun
Lightened the grayness of the autumn skies,
My heart was full of sorrow, great and keen,
For there my love one year with me had been;
There first my soul confessed her for its queen,
There had we mixed our kisses and our sighs,
There first to me her inmost heart was shown.

The wind outside was sweeping from the trees
Their few remaining leaves, as in some hall,
Where men have late held great festivities,
One plucks the faded glories from the wall,
Because the giver of the feast lies dead,
And those for whom the festal board was spread
Stand with sad faces round his silent bed,
And all the lamps that lit the festival,
Untended, burn a little space, and cease.

Then suddenly I heard a voice, and lo!
That voice was like the wind's voice having speech:
It said to me, “Rise up, dost thou not know
Thy lady waits outside, and doth beseech

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For entrance; shall she cry and thou not hear?”
I looked but saw no living creature near;
Only that voice kept whispering in my ear, —
“She calls to thee, to thee her hands outreach,
Lo, by thy name she calls thee, even now!”

I made no answer, but flung open wide
The door, and faced the light with eager eyes;
I called her name with all my strength, I cried
On that belovèd name, as one who tries
To make men hear, when in vext sleep he seems
To fly from pale avenging forms, and deems
He sleeps, but cannot waken from his dreams;
I looked, and saw above the sad gray skies,
And the gaunt poplars standing either side.

And this was all I saw; and all I heard
Was sad, protracted moaning of the wind
And piteous crying of some twilight bird
That came a nest in leafless boughs to find.
“O false, false voice,” I said, and turned away,
And shut the door upon the dying day,
And in the evening, desolate and gray,
Sat still as one whom sorrow maketh blind,
And in the silence with my heart conferred.

And as I sat, I heard that voice again,
And “Lo!” it cried, “be not discomfited,
Knocks she so loud, and calls she so in vain?
Go forth once more, and speak, nor be afraid
Of any fresh disaster. Heavenly state
She leaves for thee, and at thy very gate,
Worn in the wind and twilight, doth she wait.”
“I have no hope, for all thy words,” I said;
“And yet I could not, if I would, refrain.”

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Then, as a man who, being near to die,
Knowing men cannot save him, turns his face,
And called on God, in his extremity,
To lengthen yet a little while his days,
And, calling, feels, withal, he calls in vain, —
So by her name I called her once again,
Then listened, and I heard the rush of rain,
And sweep of winds down leaf-strewn garden ways;
I saw the blown clouds hurrying through the sky.

I looked, and listened, but no answer came;
No form or phantom stood beside the door;
Only the wind, in moaning, moaned her name;
Only my footsteps echoed on the floor;
And now the daylight died and darkness fell.
I did not know I dreamed, and yet the spell
Of dreaming seemed upon me; who shall tell
If dreams are only dreams, or something more? —
Who lights the depths of sleep with any flame?

And now that voice was silent; so I thought, —
“It is no voice at all that I have heard.”
And now the wind and rain together wrought
Wild sounds, and sweet, wherewith the night was stirred.
The hours bore on their dark and destined course;
Glad hearts and sad hearts slumbered, and the source
Of joy flowed on unnoticed, and the force
Of grief was felt not; but my heart recurred
To that strange voice, whose tones the wind had caught.

Then, as I sat and pondered, suddenly
In exultation woke again that voice;
It cried, “Rise up, go forth, for verily
Thy love, she waits to clasp thee! Hope decoys,
And men grow sick of hope, but this is truth;

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Thy kiss shall warm anew her cold, sweet mouth.
She left thee, but she kept with thee her troth;
And now she comes from very far to thee,
And brings thee back with increase all thy joys.”

Stung by those words I could but count as vain,
I flung the door back, as in last disproof:
And there withal rushed in the wind and rain,
And there I saw the bleak night's starless roof,
And there and then I heard a voice divine,
And there two cold, sweet hands took hold of mine,
And there a stormy star shone out for sign
That all things were accomplished. “O my love,
Meet we so even in my dreams again!”

I brought her in, and hardly could believe,
For joy, what was; I know I could not speak;
I know I wept, yet not as those who grieve;
I know her breath and lips were on my cheek;
I know I could not for a little space
Lift up my eyes and look upon her face;
I know at last we met in wild embrace;
I know I felt her lips to my lips cleave,
And how I fell by joy's excess made weak;

And how my hands were fain her hair to stroke,
Soft hair and bright; and how she bowed, and said, —
And these, I think, were the first words she spoke, —
“O love, lay back upon my breast thy head;
Great love alone is changeless amid change.
Love hath the utmost universe to range;
And hearts that love even death cannot estrange.”
At that word — death — afresh the old wounds bled;
I turned to clasp her once again, and woke.

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And long I pondered on the dream gone by,
As men will ponder on an ancient scroll
That holds the key to some great mystery,
Whose hidden meaning they would fain unroll.
Then said a voice unto me, without sound,
“So may the hope, long sought and never found,
Come when the last great darkness closes round, —
Come, and be apprehended by thy soul,
That thou mayst say, ‘So meet we, she and I.’”

University of Virginia Library

A DREAM.